


Operation: Phil's Shirt

by slashsailing



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Exhibitionism, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Innuendo, M/M, Partial Nudity, Possessive Behavior, Public Nudity, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3127814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashsailing/pseuds/slashsailing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint likes to wear Phil's shirt and nothing else. This begins to become a problem when he does so around the Avenger's mansion. Phil explains why he'd rather Clint stopped the behaviour—after a little while, Clint finally gets it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation: Phil's Shirt

If Clint wants to sit around in one of Phil’s shirts and nothing else then that is his goddamn prerogative and not Tony Stark nor anyone else is going to deter him.

Yes, okay, granted, he should have probably at least had some boxers on when he made his midnight journey down to the kitchen but who the hell is up looking for cold pizza and coffee at 3 a.m.?

Tony Stark apparently.

And Clint. _Obviously._

It had been semi-traumatic for all involved. Tony spilling his coffee, probably more from Clint's sudden presence in the room than for the fact he was naked. Clint had covered himself up quickly enough anyway,  with the open ends of Phil's shirt and a muttered  _wow_. If we're being honest, Tony Stark could do a lot worse than to happen upon a mostly-naked Clint Barton. And besides, no harm no foul. Tony hadn't cared so why Phil is still berating him for it is completely beyond Clint. Well, not  _completely_ beyond him. He knows what he must look like now, standing in front of Phil who had been wide awake when Clint tried to sneak back into their bed. Pale blue shirt open because the buttons won’t close over the breadth of his chest, exposing his lightly tanned skin, and the shirt’s tail barely covering his ass—certainly not covering anything around the front. 

Although, Clint would have thought Phil would  _appreciate_  the look not shout at him for it.

The jut of Clint's cock should be enough to have Phil's wires a little crossed, maybe even permit him entrance back into their bed, but Phil is having none of it. 

“We live here with other people, Clint, and you can’t walk around like that.”

Clint turns around, smirking. He opens his arms like a car salesman flaunting his wares—because it’s Phil, and Clint can afford to be utterly shameless around Phil. 

“Like what?” he asked, a paragon of innocence. 

There is a glint in Clint's eyes that he knows would make a lesser man sink to his knees and then maybe fuck Clint into next week. Phil just sighs, gives the length of Clint’s body the once over and shrugs.

“Indecent.”

“I look decent,” Clint counters, mocking with a little hint of hurt. “Is it the stubble, sir? You don’t like it?”

Phil rolls his eyes.

“I’m very busy and do not have time to chastise a grown man. You either wear clothes or you don’t leave the room. Simple.”

"You just want me locked up here and naked for your convenience," Clint accuses, trying to look flirty, suggetive maybe. Lubricious, or something. 

Phil just scoffed at him. Eyes utterly unamused before finally rolling over and letting Clint slip back into their bed without another word. 

And Phil probably hadn't meant to make his words sound like some sort of personal challenge.

But to Clint? It really, _really_ had.

So, armed with a different one of Phil's shirt every day he isn’t out on a mission, Clint does his best to tiptoe around Stark Tower without getting caught. Clint is great at tiptoeing, the best even. Well, maybe after Natasha.  _Definitely_ after Natasha.

And he does a brilliant job of not getting caught.

Defying Phil has never felt so—so sexy. And it always feels at least a little sexy.

Which is a ridiculous thought, but _hello_ , he’s Clint Barton. Usually when he’s getting shot at he has his pants around his ankles. This strange display of displaced nudity is just par for the course by now.

It gets a little awkward when he gets caught making sandwiches by Bruce. The shirt he’s wearing is an old one, really old. It isn’t even white. It’s a faded shade of what might have once been mint green. It’s soft and a little bigger than most of Phil’s other shirts and—

“It kind of looks as though your peacocking yourself,” Bruce says lightly from his perch at the breakfast counter. “I’m not sure if you’re trying to get our attention or his.”

Clint half-turns—very aware that he does not want Bruce Banner to see his junk and if he turns all the way around that is exactly what is going to happen. He had just liked the challenge, Clint tells himself. But he’s been busted now and he can feel his neck going red. Clint pulls the shirt closed over his chest, glancing down and letting out a sigh of relief. He continues hugging his arms around his abdomen and huffs at Bruce.

“It’s not peacocking,” he scoffs. “And it’s not for attention. I was bored.”

“Then, you need to get out more.”

“I was honing my skills.”

Bruce just raises an eyebrow, one that says  _we’re not running a stripper club, what skills could you possibly be honing_?

Clint doesn’t have an answer to that question and Bruce doesn’t stick around to give him a chance to make something up.

“We talked about this.”

“I took it as a personal challenge.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Phil says. “You’ve scarred Dr. Banner for life.”

“Please, he didn’t see anything.”

“Only your ass hanging out of my shirt.”

“It’s a very perky ass, sir. It doesn’t  _hang_  anywhere.”

Clint smiles at the sound of Phil’s laugh. It always sounds like a surprise. Clint loves surprises.

“Agreed,” Phil says gently, suddenly a little bit closer than he had been before. He’s got a hot hand on Clint’s waist, his chin ducked on Clint’s shoulder. “Didn’t it ever cross your mind that I didn’t want you running around the mansion like this because I don’t like the thought of everyone seeing you like this?” Phil asks, his free hand now cupping one of Clint's not-hanging ass cheeks. “That maybe I like the thought of this, of you naked, covered only by my shirt, padding around all cocksure of yourself, as a strictly  _private_ thing.”

Clint’s stomach clenches; guilt, arousal, and a hot contented gloopy feeling pool around his core. Phil’s other hand—the one that isn't currently like a branding iron on his ass—slides down the material of his stolen shirt and over Clint’s bare thigh.

“You jealous, Phil?”

“Jealous maybe isn’t the right word. Possessive?” Phil supplies, voice dropping to a whisper as he suggests, "covetous?"

The word sends a shiver up Clint's spine, his skin tingles with it. With what he apparently does to Phil, how Clint makes him lose a little bit of that perfected cool. Now, standing around half naked in the kitchen doesn't hold that much appeal. Maybe Bruce was right, maybe it was just to show off. Show off how much Clint belongs to Phil. 

“Covetous?" Clint repeats, voice raspy. "What? Did you swallow an Asgardian dictionary while I wasn’t looking?”  

“No,” Phil murmurs, breath hot on Clint’s neck. Clint can almost feel the smirk in his voice, it makes Clint nervous in that unfamiliar school-yard crush way. Butterflies and hairballs and everything that shouldn’t be playing havoc in his body fluttering around and making him blush. And Phil must know, he must. Because then he says, “but there is something I’d like to swallow.”

Clint’s knees almost buckle. But Phil is there to hold him up, both hands now cupping Clint's ass, fingers gently pressed against the backs of his thighs. 

“We’re in the kitchen,” Clint grits out, because he’s starting to get hard and antsy and he does not  _ever_ want  _anyone_  to see Phil Coulson on his knees _ever_ apart from him because that’s his thing and no one else’s and oh,  _oh_. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Phil says, lingering a moment before stepping back. Clint steps back instinctively, trying not to lose the warmth of Phil's body behind his. Phil is gonna be unbearably smug about all of this in the morning probably. “I’m gonna head back to our room.”

Clint watches him go for a second before his legs remember how to move, following Phil out of the kitchen like an eager lap dog. Clint looks down to see that Phil had ninjaed the two bottom buttons of his shirt up while he was fondling Clint. 

Clint hadn't even noticed. 

Fuck, that is so hot. 

“Right on your six, sir.”

Clint doesn’t begrudge Phil his victorious little smile.

He actually kind of loves it. 


End file.
